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iHREE WAR SKETCHES 

HER STORY 

THE MARCH OF TRUTH 

" HATRED •' 

BY 
KATHARINE SEARLE 




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THREE WAR SKETCHES 

HER STORY 

THE MARCH OF TRUTH 

" HATRED " 



BY 
KATHARINE SEARLE 




The Powell Printing Company 

Cambridge, Mass. 

1916 



Copyright 1916, by KATHARINE SEARLE 






THE ACTING RIGHTS 

of these plays are reserved by the author. 

For information regarding them address : 
The Agency for Unpublished Plays, 41 Concord Avenue, Cambridge, Mass. 



MAR 30 1916 



INTRODUCTION 

These sketches do not argue the principles of war and peace. 
They are merely impressions. 

The " March of Truth," was suggested in August, 1914, when 
the news came that the Social Democrats in Germany had joined the 
colors, after preaching against armaments and war for I do not know 
how many years. I believe the only man who did not desert his 
standard was the leader, Liebknecht. We all wonder what must be 
the feelings of the Social Democrats as they wait through the dreary 
months in the trenches, or are urged forward into the torture of the 
battle-field where death is the only welcome friend. I have here 
tried to imagine what one has felt. From what I have been able to 
read, — the documents are scanty enough as yet, — I believe I am 
not wrong. 

The other two sketches will, I hope, explain themselves. 



TO 

M. T. a 



Her Story 



CAST 

Miss Marston : Head nurse at the Good Samaritan Convalescents 

Home. 
Miss Smith : A trained nurse. 
Betty Baxter : A debutante with a taste hut not a talent for 

charity. 
Anna: An old Belgian woman, a refugee. 

Scene : Portion of a sunparlor on the ground floor of the 
Good Samaritan Canvalescents Home. The hack wall chiefly con- 
sists of windows looking out into a park. Spring. The vines are in 
blossom about the windoxvs. A horse chestnut tree in full bloom is 
seen on the edge of the park. 

The windows are open here and there. Wicker furniture, — a 
table, an armchair and two or three chairs. Armchair about C. 
Table L C. Doors R and L. 

At the rise of the curtain Betty Baxter comes in at R with a 
brisk step. 

Betty: A very smart young person. She is dressed in the 
latest of everything. Hat, fluttering jacket and skirt, — the latter 
very much too short, — all in the latest style. She exhibits far too 
much silk stocking, which is terminated by the usual ridiculous foot- 
wear. An enormous bunch of violets decorates her waistline. Her 
face is pleasant and perfectly thoughtless. 

Betty (after looking about for some one whom she does not find, 
turns again to door R). 

Betty. — O Miss Marston ! 
Miss Marston (inside). — Well? 
Bet. — She's not here. 

Miss M. (appearing). — Miss Smith hasn't brought her yet. She'll 
be here in a minute. 



6 Three War Sketches 

Miss Marston : a well-built woman with a vigorous body and prac- 
tical healthy unimagiiiative expression. 

She goes L, opens door and calls. 
Miss M. — O Miss Smith! 

Miss S. (off stage). — Coming, Miss Marston. 
Miss M. — Miss Baxter's here to see Anna. 

Miss S. — All ready in a minute, Miss Marston, Bring her right out. 
Miss M. — All right. 

She closes the door and turns to Betty. 
Miss M. — She'll be here in a minute. Glad to see you, Miss Baxter. 

It's a long time since you've been down. 
Bet. — O I've been terribly busy. Auction parties every week. And 

dances almost every night. I'm nearly dead. — {she looks it! — 

turning and looking out of the windows). — Awfully pretty 

place here. Haven't you.? Sh'd think they'd just love it. 
Miss M. — They! Their one idea is to get away! 
Bet. — Really ! 
Miss M. — O yes. You can't make 'em appreciate it. Lucky if we 

can get 'em cured without relatives interfering. That's one 

thing about the woman you're coming to see. No relatives to 

trouble her. 
Bet. — I don't know whom I'm coming to see ! The Secretary at the 

Social Workers never told me ! 
Miss M. — Didn't she.? Well, it's a Belgian refugee. An old woman. 

Nobody knows where she comes from or how she got here. First 

place, she's forgotten her last name! 
Bet. — Really ! How funny ! 
Miss M. — We don't know how she got over here all by herself. 

Came with a crowd in the steerage. Dreadful condition when 

she came to the hospital, they tell me. Never thought they 

could pull her through. She must be seventy if she's a day. 

But you can't kill some people. Why, if you'll believe it, her 

whole side was — 
Bet. {looking very nervous and interrupting) . — Well, gracious, the 

Secretary told me I was to read to some one. If this woman's 

a Belgian, she can't understand English and I can't read 

French. 
Miss M. — O she understands English. 'Nother funny thing. Dr. 

Grey thought she might be an Englishwoman who'd got into 

Belgium some way. She had a fierce temperature when she 



Her Story 7 

got to the hospital. They thought it was gangrene. And she 

hadn't had a thing done for her, poor old thing! They had 

to give her five doses of — 
Bet. {interrupting: evidently embarrassed). — Yes, I know. Do you 

think she'll understand this? I was in such a hurry when I 

left the house it was all I could grab up. 

Holds out her book. 
Miss M. — "Pigs is Pigs." O Gee. I don't know. All you can do 

is try. She's most well now and nobody knows what on earth 

to do with her when she's discharged. What we want you to 

do is try to draw her out as to what she did before she came 

over. Find out if she can earn — 
Bet. {longing to escape). — But I can't. I don't see why they sent 

me down here ! I never can do that kind of thing ! 
Miss M. — Well, hold on a minute. You want to do this kind of 

thing I suppose, or you wouldn't have handed in your name. 
Bet. — O mother did that! 
Miss M. — Well now, see here. We've done all we can. This place 

is full, — people waiting to get in. We haven't time to sit and 

draw patients out. Just try for fifteen minutes, there's the 

girl! Just remember you didn't have to handle her when she 

first came all — 
Bet. — O yes I know but — 
Miss M. — ^You don't care for nursing, do you.'* 
Bet. — O yes I do. But I can't bear to talk about it. 
Miss M. {laughing). — Well, I'd like to puf you right onto our out- 
patient department down at the hospital. You'd love that. — 

{laughs again) — 
Bet. {flushing). — O well, I've taken my First Aid course and I've 

got my diploma, and they put me right on the Preparedness 

list. 
Miss M. — That certainly is going some. Learned to bandage a 

broken jaw and all the rest of it. 
Bet. — O of course we bandaged each other. We didn't have any 

real jaws, — I mean — 
Miss M. — Well, you certainly have to read enough about them in 

the papers these days, — and see their pictures too — 
Bet. — O I won't look at those things. They always make me sick. 

Besides father and mother hide the things they don't want me 

to see. 



8 Three War Sketches 

Miss M. — Well, well. And you're all for Preparedness just the 
same! 

Bet. — O yes. Father believes in it and we've all got to work for it. 

Miss M. (still amused). — So's to be ready when the Germans come 
over, I see. Well, I guess you've got a long time to wait. If 
you want to bandage any jaws, you'll have to go over there. 

Bet. {not without pride). — My brother's running an ambulance at 
the front and I have two cousins in the trenches. It's perfectly 
great ! Their letters are terribly interesting, though nobody 
knows what they're doing or where they are, things are so terri- 
bly censored. But father says all this war will wake everybody 
up, and of course, it's since the war everybody's talking Pre- 
paredness. And one of my aunts went with that thing to 
Washington, whatever it was ! Father says we ought all to 
talk it up. You believe in Preparedness, don't you.'^ 

Miss M. — Be-lieve me, I don't know anything about that end of it. 
But if I get a chance to join a unit, you can bet your bottom 
dollar I won't stay here. War booms our profession at any 
rate. So I guess I'm for Preparedness all right. Gee. I must 
go.— 
She goes and looks down the passage L once more. 

Miss M. — They're coming now. Sit down. Miss Baxter. You were 
good to come. And don't forget to ask what she can do. 
That's the really important thing. She'll never get back to 
her own people now, of course. 
Exit R, still much amused. 

Betty sits R looking decidedly uncomfortable and expectant, 
her hands in her lap, fumbling her book, her knees together, her 
toes tapping. 

Enter L, Miss Smith, a bright chunky little nurse, leading an 
old woman. 

Anna : the old woman has a white withered face, and an anxious, 
puzzled look in her eyes. She has on a hospital wrapper and 
her thin grey hair is strained back into an unostentatious knot. 
The unconscious contrast between Betty and Anna is worth 
going miles to see. 

Anna is led carefully to the armchair by Miss Smith who turns 
her more toward the windows, facing R. Miss Smith then 
closes the windows. 



Her Story 9 

Miss S. (to Anna). — There now. Warm enough? 

Anna nods. 
Miss S. (taking a shawl off her arm). — Better put this on. — (Anna 

shakes her head) — No? Then I'll put it here on the table, 

in case you should want it. This young lady has come to see 

you. 

A quick, moved look comes into the old woman's eyes. 
Miss S. — She's come to read to you, if you like. 

Anna looks at Betty and her lips move. 
Miss S. (to Betty). — She's thanking you. You'd better come close 

to her so you can understand what she says. — (turning back 

to Anna) — I'll be back in fifteen minutes. — (smiles as she 

goes toward L door) — 

Exit Miss Smith L. 

Betty crosses over to the old woman and sits beside her. Betty 

is very ill at ease. Silence for a moment. 
Bet. (in a rather loud voice). — You have a pleasant place here. 
Anna (starting a little). — I don't understand. 
Bet. — This is a pleasant place here. — (motions to the park) — 
Anna (indifferent). — O yes. 
Bet. — Have — have you been here long? 
Anna (with a sigh). — O yes. Very long. 
Bet. — I'd like to read to you or something. Would you like to 

have me read? 
Anna. — Read? No. I cannot read. Not any more. 
Bet. — Shall I read to you? 

Anna (after a moment). — Please excuse me. Not today. 
Bet. (both relieved and at a loss). — All right. 
Anna. — You understand. My head is not very good. I thank 

you for your kindness. 
Bet. — O that's all right. — It's nice to have it spring again, isn't it? 

Anna nods. Then she sighs. Betty looks very uneasy. 
Bet. (trying again). — I like the Spring. I hate our winters. It'll 

be cold for a day or two and then warm. I'd rather have 

snow, don't you know, and skating all winter, the way they do 

in Canada. — (faster and faster) — I was in Canada for a 

whole winter and we did nothing but coast and snow-shoe the 

whole time. Perfectly great. I learned to waltz on skates. I 

took part in the sports. Got a prize. It was perfectly corking. 

I learned a lot of steps on the ice that people here are only 



10 Three War Sketches 

just catching on to. I taught a lot of the girls and the men 

in my set this winter. But the ice doesn't last. Nothing but 

mud. 
Anna. — Ah yes. The mud. — (her mind wanders away) — 
Bet. — Of course, we've worked for the Bazaars you know, this win- 
ter, and the Red Cross, — (checks herself, afraid of a personal 

application.) 
Anna (brightening). — Ah yes. The Croix Rouge. They are very 

good. — (silent again). 
Bet. — Those things take up one's time awfully. But now Spring's 

come, I'm taking up tennis. I'm just crazy about tennis. 
Anna (looking at her quickly). — Tennis. 
Bet. (encouraged) . — Yes. You know it's the game they play with 

a racket and balls over a net. 
Anna (nods: then). — I knew that game when I was a child, — in 

England. Yes. Ten-nis. 
Bet. (rapidly). — I've entered in all the tournaments. There are 

three. Don't expect to get anything, but might as well try. 

Got a cup last year. But I'm fearfully off my game. No 

muscle at all. — (feels her arm) — But I'll get up my game 

in a week or two, — I should worry. 
Anna (in a low voice). — You are very good to come and see me. 
Bet. (forgetting her self-importance: kindly). — O not at all. I 

like to. 

She puts her hand impulsively on the arm of Anna's chair. 
Anna (putting her hand timidly on Betty's). — You are so like my 

Hilda. 
Bet. — Thank you. Is Hilda your daughter? 
Anna. — O dear no. My daughter's daughter. — (a haunted look 

comes into her face: she loses herself again) — 
Bet. (jumping up). — Sure you're quite warm. Hadn't I better put 

you on this shawl.'' 

She takes the shawl from the table and puts it around Anna. 
Anna. — Thank you my dear. You are very good. 
Bet. — How old is Hilda.'' 

She seats herself again. 
Anna. — She is just eighteen, with blonde hair like yours. But — 

(imth a half -laugh) — never such beautiful clothes. — (laughs 

again) — Never such beautiful clothes as that. No. 
Bet. — What did — what did — Hilda do.? 



Her Story 11 

Anna. — Hilda was a maid at the Hotel de 1' Europe. 

Bet. {trying to he interested in a servant). — O was she? 

Anna. — Yes. That was what I was, when I left England. 
Pause. Anna again distrait. 

Bet. — When did you leave England? 

Anna. — I? O years ago. I married in Belgium the Maitre d'Hotel 
of the — {seems to search for the word) — I went there with 
my mistress, Lady Langley. Many years ago now. Many 
years. 

Bet. {becoming interested in drawing Anna out). — So you married 
in Belgium. What part of Belgium? 

Anna. — Why Louvain. — {looks at Betty as if she ought to have 
known) — Didn't you know that? 

Bet. — No. I didn't. That was — was a very — nice town. Wasn't 
it? 

Anna. — O yes. 

Her face falls and becomes blank again. 

Bet. — I went through it once on the train. 

Anna {brightening). — O you know Louvain? You were there? 

Bet. — O yes. But it was before the — well before the way it is now, 
don't you know. 

Anna. — The war. The war has changed everything. 
She wipes her eyes. 

Anna. — I had four daughters and two sons. I don't know where 
they are now. My sons went to the war when it broke out. I 
think they are dead. I don't know. 
She rvipes her eyes again. 

Bet. — Perhaps some of us can find them for you. Perhaps if you 
tell us — 

Anna. — If I could only see Hilda again. — {turns to Betty confi- 
dentially) — You see we lived in a house behind the Hotel, 
where my husband worked. He had become proprietor in the 
last years, but we never moved over there. My daughters were 
all married. One died before the war. Two moved away from 
Louvain. They might be alive — 

Bet. {to whom it is impossible to believe that they are dead). — O 
yes ! I'm sure they're alive ! 

Anna {smiles a little and turns to her again). — My daughter's hus- 
band was shot. 

Bet. {horrified). — Shot! Why I never heard of such a thing! 



12 Three War Sketches 

Anna. — He was shot down before our house. 

Bet. {her lips trembling). — O but — couldn't something be done? 

Anna. — O no. He was in our house and the soldiers came and took 
him out. His wife died in childbed that night. My daughter. 

Bet. {who has only thought of childbed as one of those things one 
never talks about). — O dear. How awful. 

Anna. — She had three children already. Daughters. The oldest 
was Hilda. I kept them all. My husband was arrested, — he 
did not know what for. He was taken away a few days after- 
ward. 

Bet. — But why? 

Anna. — Because the Germans wanted to take him. They never gave 
any reasons for what they did. 

Bet. — But couldn't you get away before the Germans got there.'' 

Anna. — But we were all taken by surprise. Who could dream — 
when war was declared — when they broke into Belgium, — no- 
body believed, — I can't believe it yet. I never saw my husband 
again. They say he was put into one of those camps. / be- 
lieve he is dead. 

Bet. {in great distress). — O I hope not! Perhaps we can find him 
for you — 

Anna {beginning to cry).-r-Fmd my Hilda and her sisters — {she 
sobs). 

Bet. — O. We oughtn't to talk about it. Let me read to you. 
Please — {fumbles the pages of "Pigs is Pigs.^^) 
The old woman pays no attention. 

Anna {continuing). — We were all put into the street. Our house 
was set on fire. I can see it yet. The flames. They couldn't 
get me away. At last some soldiers insulted my girls. I took 
them away then. Tilly was so little she had to be carried. 
Then we walked and walked. I thought if we could only reach 
the sea. I thought if we could get to England we could be safe. 
— {she cries). 

Anna {continuing). — But we slept in the fields. One day, on the 
road — a man — struck me on the head — so. 

Bet. {very nervous: on the point of tears). — What kind of a man.'' 
A soldier? 

Anna. — I think it was. I can't remember. When I awoke the girls 
were gone. 

Bet. {indignant). — They left you! 



Her Story 13 

Anna (sobbing). — O no. The soldiers. The soldiers. My girls 

have nothing now but their shame. — (sobs out aloud) — 

Betty sits frozen with horror. After a while she finds her 

voice. 
Bet. — O don't. Don't. Perhaps we can find them. 
Anna. — That is the worst. If we should find them ! Hilda, the one 

like you, — my dearest child ! 
Bet. — But wasn't there any one to help you.^ 
Anna (slowly shaking her head). — I can't remember anything after 

that. Only walking, walking. And then — a ship. I don't 

know. I was numb here. — (she touches her head) — As I have 

sat in this place it all comes back to me. Why couldn't I die 

too? All my people gone. All. In one week. 
Bet. (rapidly). — Tell me your name and we'll see if we can't find 

them. I know father and mother will give me the money. 

There's my Christmas money I never spent. O I want to help 

you so much ! Tell me your name. 
Anna. — Bless you a thousand times, my dear one. It's no use. I 

can't remember. 
Bet. — But you remembered Lady Langley's name. We can write 

to her. 
Anna* — She is dead. She died with us at the Hotel Poirier — 

(she pauses) — Poirier. That was my husband's name. And 

mine. Poirier. Anton. 
Bet. (writing rapidly on the fly-leaf of "Pigs is Pigs"). — I've got 

it. 
Anna. — Poirier. Hilda's name was — well. Never mind. It will 

come. They will come now. 
Bet. — We'll find them for you. All. 
Anna (smiling: unbelieving). — All? 
Bet. (decidedly). — Yes. All. 
Anna. — God bless you. — (she sighs, resigned) — 
Bet. (taking violets from her dress: jumping up and putting them 

in Anna's hand). — I'm so sorry. But we'll find them all. 

There. 
Anna. — Thank you, my dear. 
Bet. (opening window: impulsively). — O it's so warm in here! — 

(shutting window again as impulsively) — O no. I forgot. 

You'll be cold. 



14 Three War Sketches 

Anna {nodding pleasantly). — Just like Hilda. Just like Hilda. 

All right. All right. 

Miss Smith enters L, 
Miss S. — Time to go back now, Anna. 

She helps her to rise. 
Bet. {goes up, impulsively, puts her arms about Anna's neck and 

kisses her). — Goodbye. I'm coming to see you — often. 
Anna. — Goodbye, my dear child. 
Miss S. — I guess she's tired. It's the first time she's been up as 

long as this. 

Anna and Miss Smith have reached the door, L. Anna stops 

and turns, still holding the violets. 
Anna. — Goodb3'e, — Hilda. 
Miss S. {over her shoulder to Betty). — You sure have made a hit 

with her. 

They go out. Miss Marston enters R. 
Miss M. — Well, did you get anything out of her.f" 
Bet. {with a flushed and excited face). — Yes. Her name's Poirier. 

And she comes from Louvain. 
Miss M. — She told you? Good. And what can she do? 
Bet. — Do ! 
Miss M. — To earn ! 

Bet. {blankly). — I forgot all about that! 
Miss M. — Well, thafs the important thing. 
Bet. — I'm going to try to find her family ! 
Miss M. {disgusted). — O Gee! They're lost long ago. 
Bet. — Well anyway, I'm going to try. 
Miss M. — Child, what's the matter with you? You look as if you 

had temperature. 
Bet. {disregarding the suggestion of a thermometer). — See here. 

Isn't there any discipline in those armies? 
Miss M. — Hold on. Which armies? Where? 
Bet. — Why over there. In the war. 
Miss M. — Why yes. What do you mean? 
Bet. — Because she's been telling me such horrible things about what 

happened. Aren't the soldiers under orders? 
Miss M. — Why yes. But that's to fight their battles with. In the 

towns they get away. Fool their officers. Lots of stories like 



Her Story IS 

that. Shoot from the natives' windows at the officers and then 
say as how the natives did it. Then' they get orders to loot. 
Haven't you read about it? 
Bet. — O yes. I suppose so. But — 

Miss M. — Well then, I guess you've got something at first hand, 
young lady ! 

Bet. — But listen here. Her husband's been shut up and her son- 
in-law shot, and her daughter died, and the house was burned 
down, and she and her granddaughters turned into the streets 
and then — O then the soldiers knocked her unconscious and 
took away the girls ! And then she doesn't know how she got 
here. And her name is Poirier, and she comes from Louvain, 
and I'm going to find her family. And if this is war — 

Miss M. {getting a word in with difficulty). — It sure is! 

Bet. — ^Well, I don't believe in it ! And I'm going to stop it ! And 
I'm not going to work for Preparedness ! And I'm going home 
to tell father ! 

Eant with a rush. Miss Marston stands laughing. As Betty 
hangs the door R, enter Miss Smith L, greatly excited. 

Miss S. — Anna remembers — (here door R bangs) — Good heavens ! 
Was that the girl who was here just now? 

Miss M. (still laughing). — Well I guess! There goes a girl who's 
begun to think for the first time in her life! 

Curtain. 



The March of Truth 



CAST 

Gertrude: A woman of the people. 
Tony: A child of the upper classes. 
Julius Braun: A socialist. 

Scene: A wine cellar under a house somewhere in the war 
zone. R and L are two stone supports to the vaulted roof. The 
back of the stage is recessed. In the shadow of the R pillar up 
stage, is a heavy door. R and L are wine-hins. There is nothing 
imposing about the architecture. It is simply useful and anti- 
quated. A chair, a settee, both delapidated, and an empty packing- 
case compose the furnishings. The packing-case stands C, and L of 
the case, the chair. The settee stands L of chair and runs up and 
down stage. On the case, a lighted candle, another unlighted, a 
bowl, a child's mug, a Bible, a half-knitted stocking and a Teddy 
Bear. 

Gertrude is sitting in the chair with Tony on her lap and is 
trying to feed him out of the bowl. 

Gertrude: is a woman of the people. She wears her heavy 
hair wound about Iter head in braids. Her face is large, round and 
healthy, — by nature florid, but now pallid and marked with un- 
natural shadows and lines, brought on by fatigue, sorrow and never- 
ending apprehension. Her figure is tall, very well-developed, with 
strong shoulders and deep chest. Her carriage is upright. She is 
the fine type we see in the paintings of European peasants. She 
is dressed in a plain print dress, with an apron embroidered in cross 
stitch. She wears a large thick grey shawl with which she covers 
Tony. 

Tony : is a thin slight delicate shrinking little boy. His 
long thin legs are only partly clad in socks, and his slender feet are 
encased in patent leather shoes. His dress is that customary among 
rich people of Europe at the present day. His hair is cut in a 
dandified way. 



The March of Truth 17 

Gertrude {taking up the spoon). — A little? Come. Try. 

He moves his head toward the spoon, then turns away. 
Tony (whispering). No, no. 
Ger. {rather more firmly). — Come, Tony, you must try. 

Tony turns away his head and buries it in her shoulder. 

Gertrude pushes the dish away and reaches for the Teddy Bear, 
Ger. — See, the little bear is cold too. 

Tony takes the bear into a convulsive embrace, then he throws 

him away. 
Ger. — Don't you want your good little bear? He is very lonely. 
Tony {beginning to cry). — I want my mamma. I want my mamma. 
Ger. — Your mamma will come soon. 
Tony. — Where is she now? 
Ger. — Now she must be at the next town. 
Tony. — Then I shall see her soon. 

Ger. — It takes so long to travel nowadays. Perhaps. 
Tony. — But the soldiers won't shoot my mamma? 
Ger. — O no ! They are very good to her. But the streets are full 

of wagons and automobiles and horses and soldiers marching. 

And it takes a long time for mothers to reach their children. 
Tony {suddenly sitting up). — There it is again! 
Ger.— What, child? 
Tony. — The noise in the wall. 

He turns staring frightened eyes toward the L wall and then 

back to Gertrude. 
Ger. {listening). — I don't hear anything, 
Tony {petulantly). — Yes you do! Yes you do! Don't keep saying 

that! — {he blubbers nervously) — 

Gertrude puts him down with decision and goes to the wall L 

and puts her ear to it. It is obvious to the audience that she 

does hear something, but she conceals it from Tony. 
Ger. {turning to Tony). — You are a foolish boy. Some rat is 

making himself a house. 
Tony. — I don't like rats ! 
Ger. — I won't let them come to you, and they never go into your 

grandmother's storeroom where your bed is. That is why she 

had it built so. Stone walls and the great door. 
Tony {putting his arms about her waist). — Why do we have to live 

down here? Why can't we go upstairs? 



18 Three War Sketches 

Gee. {with the expression of one who has repeated the answer many 

times). — I have told you a thousand times! 
Tony. — But wht^! 
Ger. {distinctly). — Because the King has ordered it. He has also 

ordered little boys to go to bed at nine and it is now ten. 

Come. 
Tony.— No. 

Ger. — Yes. You have not had your sleep. You must make it up. 
Tony {trailing dismally along with Gertrude up R). — Gertrude, 

how long is it since the soldiers came and took mamma and 

papa away.'' 
Ger. {with another expression of suppressed impatience). — It was 

four. 
Tony. — Four? Was it four.? I can't remember the days down here. 

— I want my mamma. How long did you say it would be before 

she got back.? 
Ger. — I told you she is at the next town and will get here as soon 

as she can. Now. Will you go to bed.? 
Tony {yawning dismally: hanging onto Gertrude's skirt). — No. 

Gertrude, tell me a story. 
Ger. — All right. 

She snatches him up and wrapping him in her shawl, seats her- 
self again in the chair. 
Ger. — Now. What do you want.? The Frog Prince.? 
Tony ( whining ) . — No . 
Ger. — Cinderella .? 
Tony {peevishly). — No, no. 
Ger. — Then what.? 
Tony {after a pause: wearily). — I don't know. 

A great boom, much muffled, resounds, shaking the walls. The 

spoon in the bowl clinks. The settee rattles. The faint clinking 

of the bottles in the bins is heard. 
Ger. {involuntarily: under her breath). — O Christ Jesu ! 

Tony breaks info shrinking sobs. Gertrude holds him close. 
Ger. {suppressing her own anguish). — Don't cry. There, there. 

You see it didn't hurt us. You see why the good King told us 

to come down here. There. There. Sh. Sh. 

A series of more distant booms. 

The child hides his head under the shawl in speechless agony. 

He is too frightened and exhausted to cry any more. His little 



The March of Truth 19 

thin hand, a mere claw, clutches the edge of the shawl, — all 
that can be seen of him. 
The thunder dies away. 

Ger. {raising her eyes: whispering). — God, — no war, — no war. — 
{she breathes deeply) — All safe again, darling. Look up. 
Tony's frightened face looks out again. 

Ger. {quickly). — A long while ago there lived a little girl, and the 
people of the village called her Goldylocks, because her curly 
hair was so light and shiny. And one day, though her parents 
had told her she must not go out, she ran away into a wood 
to gather floAvers. She ran and she ran until she came to a 
lonely spot where she found a pretty little cottage, — the pret- 
tiest cottage in the world. The door was open. And the win- 
dow of the best room was open. She looked in, but she could 
not see anybody. So she decided to go into the house and look 
about her. 

Tony. — What is that story .'' 

Ger. — It is called the Three Bears. 

Tony. — Do I know it? 

Ger. — This is a new story. You must not keep stopping me. First 
she went into the kitchen, and there she found the supper 
standing in three bowls on the table. 

Tony. — What was that supper.? 

Ger. — Soup. 

Tony. — What kind of soup? 

Ger. — It was a milk soup such as I used to cook for you. 

Tony. — Gertrude, I should like — 

Ger. — You must be quiet. There were three bowls. One was a 
great big bowl. One was a middling-sized bowl. And one was 
a teeny tiny bowl. Goldylocks tasted them all. But the little 
one she liked best, so she ate it all up. Then she was 
tired and looked for a chair to sit down in. There were three 
chairs in the room. One a great big chair. One a middling- 
sized chair. And one a teeny tiny chair. The big one was 
too big. The middling-sized one was too soft. But the little 
chair which had a rush-bottom was very nice indeed, and she 
sat in it and rocked to and fro. 

Tony. — But why? 

Ger. — Why what? 

Tony {after a short pause: sleepily). — Why? 



20 Three War Sketches 

A longer pause. Gertrude sivays him gently. He seems almost 
asleep. Suddenly he starts up, convulsively. 

Tony. — I hear it. I hear it. I hear it. 

Ger. — But what? 

Tony. — The rat. The rat. That is making himself a house. Don't 
let him come here. 

Ger. — No, no, no, — foolish boy. 

She holds him close and goes on with the story. 

Ger. — Suddenly, — crack ! — the seat of the tiny chair gave way and 
Goldylocks fell to the floor. When she got up, she saw the 
stairs and thought she would go up and see what there was 
there. 

Tony (drearily). — I don't like that story. 

Ger. (clucks with her tongue and looks upward, desperately). — 
What would you like? A song? 

Tony (nodding his head). — Yes. 

Ger. — Shall I sing Rockabye? 

Tony, — No, no, not that. Don't sing. 

Ger.— What then? 

Tony (is silent for a moment: then). — Tell me the rest of the story. 

Ger. (in a low insistent hum). — She went upstairs and found three 
beds. One great big bed. One middling-sized bed. And one 
teeny tiny bed. The big bed was too large. The middling- 
sized bed was too soft. But the little bed was just right. So 
she crawled in and was soon fast asleep. 
She glances down at the child. 

Ger. (continuing). — She was soon fast asleep. After a while the 
Three Bears who lived in the house, came home from their 
walk. — (she looks down again) — Home from their walk. The 
Big Bear went up to the table, — went up to the table and 
said — (whispering) — Asleep. At last. 

She holds the boy quietly for a moment until she is sure, then 
she tiptoes with him to the large door and disappears inside. 
A distinct clinking in the wall L is now audible. 
Gertrude comes back, leaving the door ajar. She lights the 
other candle and places it inside the door, then closes it all but 
a crack. Then she comes heavily down to the chair, leans her 
head on her hands and groans softly. 

Ger. — At last. At last. 

Involuntarily the big tears begin to run down her cheeks. 



The March of Truth 21 

Finally she lays her head down on the case. Her shoulders 
heave hut she makes no sound. 

The clinking grows more and more distinct and insistent. Chips 
of mortar fall out of the wall L. Suddenly, as Gertrude stands 
upright, a panel is pushed in. A man's head, unrecognizable 
with filth, and pallid with weariness and loss of blood, appears. 
He is breathing heavily. His head is tied up with a bloody 
cloth. 

Ger. (with a terrific gesture of command: whispering). — Make no 
noise. 

The man hesitates. Gertrude goes up swiftly and closes the 
door, after looking in and assuring herself that the child has 
not wakened. Then she comes down again. 

Ger. (fiercely: always in undertone). — Who are you? 

Man. — Help me. 

Ger. — What do you want? 

Man. — Help me. 

Ger. — Not till you tell me who you are and what you want, 

Man (obviously suffering). — Julius Braun. Water. 

Ger. (with a swift pitying gesture goes at once to help him: speaks 
as she goes). — The street was torn up by a bomb. The pipes 
are broken. There is no water here. 

Man (more faintly). — Help me. 

Gertrude, with her splendid strong arms, draws him out, — a 
mere wreck of a man, clad in what is scarcely recognizable as a 
uniform. He is unable to use one leg. He staggers to the 
floor and faints. 

Gertrude turns quickly, seizes a bottle of wine from a bin 
and breaks off the neck. She takes off her apron and sopping 
it with the wine, bathes his forehead and face and hands. She 
undoes his collar. She fans him. At last his life returns. 

Ger. (in a soothing voice). — Come. You mustn't lie there on this 
cold floor. 
She slowly helps him up and seats him on the settee. 

Ger. — You are very much hurt. 

BravJ)} (stupidly). — My head. My leg. 

Ger. — Let me bind them up. 

Braun (shaking his head, weakly). — No. I — can't. I haven't had 
food for days. — (his head sinks forward: he rouses) — Where 
am I? 



22 Three War Sketches 

Ger. {in a gentle, distinct voice). — This is the cellar of Monsieur 
de Bravoort's house. 

Braun. — Mmn. — What town is this? 

Ger. — Saint John's. 

Braun (dully), — My God, m}' God, my God. Have you — any- 
thing to — eat.'* 

Ger. (with a swift glance at the bowl on the table and placing her- 
self before it). — No. 

Braun (who has seen the dish). — That! 

Ger. (after a struggle with herself). — That is for a child. 

Braun. — I want it. I want it. I want it. You are cruel. 

Ger. (stubbornly). — It belongs to a child. 

Braun. — I must have it. I want it. I am dying — 

Ger. (with a great sigh). — A little. I'll let you have a little. 
She turns toward the bowl, reluctantly. 

Braun. — Ah no. It belongs to the child. 
Gertrude makes a gesture of relenting. 

Braun. — No. No. The child will grow up. I'm no use — I'm — 
done. 

He sinks back. 

Gertrude takes a piece of burlap from one of the bins, rolls 
it up and puts it under his head. She covers him with her 
shawl. Then she remembers the wine. She fills the child's mug 
and drawing up beside him, coaxes him to drink. At first, like 
the boy, he resists. Then he takes a little. Then a little 
more. Then he opens his eyes as if he had never seen the place. 

Braun. — Where am I.'* 

Ger. (gently). — In Monsieur de Bravoort's cellar. 

Braun. — O yes. Bra-voort you say.P Give me some more wine. 
Booming again outside. Gertrude anxiously goes and regards 
the child. She comes back reassured. 

Ger.— Thank God. 

Braun. — Why ? 

Ger. — Monsieur de Bravoort's boy. He's asleep at last. The first 
time in four days, he's really asleep. Thank God. 

Braun. — O that's it. — A fine place for a child. 

He laughs weakly. His laugh ends in a faint cough. 

Braun. — How did a child get down here? 

Ger. — They took Monsieur de Bravoort out four days ago and shot 
him. 



The March of Truth 23 

Bbaun. — What for? 

Ger. — God knows. His wife would not leave him. They shot her 
too. 

Beaun. — Yes. I hope so. Best thing. 

Gee. — They would not let her leave after she came into the room 
and stood beside her husband. If she could have reached the 
child nothing could have torn her away. She had hidden me 
and him down here. They didn't find us when they looted. I 
don't know why they didn't burn the house. But that army 
has gone. 

Beaun. — Ah. Which army.'' 

Gee. (shrugging) . — I don't know. It's all one. Another will come 
after. — {with sudden apprehension) — Do you belong to 
them.'' 

Beaun. — Yes I did. I — can't remember which. — Give me wine. 
Gertrude gives him a swallow. 

Beaun {leaning his head back). — Wonderful wine. 

Gee. — Yes. That was from the Burgomaster's cellar. He made 
my master a present of it last Christmas. 

Beaun. — I want more. 

Gee. — But ought you — 

Beaun. — Give it to me! — {he drinks) — Ah, well, well, well. My 
mind is as clear as a bell now. It hasn't been so clear for days. 
Ah, well, well, well. 

He suddenly sighs deeply and makes a gesture of weariness or 
despair. 

Gee. — Are you comfortable.'' 

Beaun. — O yes. 

Gee. — Can I help your wounds.? 

Beaun. — Never mind. Never mind. — I've been crawling around 
underground. I don't know how long. I was sent on scout 
duty. Yes. That was it. Scout duty. Got a wound here — 
{indicates leg) — had to lie in a ditch. I don't know how long 
it was. I raised my head — got another here. — {indicates 
head) — I crawled a long way in that ditch. Found myself 
in what I thought was an old drain. Secret passage. These 
old towns are full of these things. 

Gee. {indicating passage). — How long have you been in there.'' 

Beaun. — How long.'' Don't know. Give me some more of that wine. 
She gives it obediently. 



24 Three War Sketches 

Braun {after drinking). — You might as well you know. It's the 

least you can do for a dying man. But what'll you do with my 

corpse.'' 
Ger. {under her breath). — O God! 

Braun. — Got to think of that. Can you drag me back in there.'' 
Ger. — O yes. 
Braun. — Then close up the hole. It will close. But the gases. 

Shove me in as far as you can. 
Ger. — My God. 

A pause. He makes the gesture of distress again. 
Ger. {whispering : her hand to her forehead). — O God, no war. No 

war. 
Braun. — And now do you know who this is that is to be buried in 

a drain.'' 

Gertrude looks at him blankly. 
Braun. — Don't know me? Well, I was editor of the People's Voice. 

Now you know. 
Ger. — O yes. — Heini, — my young man, — used to read that paper. 
Braun. — Socialist paper. Yes. And the motto always stood on the 

front page : "The Truth is marching on." 
Ger. — That was the paper that was so against war. 
Braun. — Yes. I had to get over the border into Switzerland twice 

when they got after me. I've been in prison five times for that 

paper. 
Ger. — Five times ! No ! Really ! 
Braun. — Yes. I fought armaments. And look at me now — 

{laughs weakly) — 
Ger. — But you did much good. Heini said that. 
Braun. — I dare say. I dare say. I meant well. My hands were 

tied. Fool that I was to stay on this side of the water. 
Ger. — Why did you.'' 
Braun. — To see the fight out. 

Ger. {with anguish). — Ah, we can none of us see that now! 
Braun. — You are right. We can never see the end. Nor our chil- 
dren. Nor our children's children. — What about that child in 

there .'' 
Ger. — What do you mean.'' 

Braun. — Who knows, if he grows up he can do what I never suc- 
ceeded in doing. Let me see him. 
Ger. — No, no. 



The March of Truth 25 

Beaun. — He ought to hear what I failed to do. So that he will 
succeed. Children that grow up now will never forget this 
childhood. Our only hope lies in them. Let me see him. 

Ger. — No, no, no. He is delicate. He will not live through this. 
He has not slept for four nights and can scarcely eat. No, no. 
I cannot wake him. It will be killing him. Every nerve is fine 
and sensitive. He has nearly died from illness at different 
times. He has a bad heart. 

Beaun. — Bah! That's our new generation of rebels. Bulbous 
headed, overfed, coddled. Drink and learning. The destruc- 
tion of a people. They have made us too weak to throw off 
the yoke and now it has crushed us into the earth. Ah well. 
He makes the troubled gesture once again. 

Gee. — But men like you. Heini said you were our only hope ! 

Beaun. — I ! — {laughs feebly) — Not I ! I'm not wanted. There's 
no place for me in the world. Any more than for Judas. 

Gee. — But if you lived. Why you are not very old — 

Beaun. — Thirty-two. That is the way my country uses the brains 
of her people. There will be no brains worth the name in 
Europe for a hundred years. All blotted out in the trenches. 
And all the old dogmas will come home to roost again. Then 
there will be an end. And then — {with passion) — my people 
will not be voted down. — O you can't understand me. You 
don't know what this is all about.? Hein.? 

Gee. {starting). — I? What do I know.? Except that I want there 
should be no war. 

Beaun. — War disagrees with you too, doesn't it.? Yes. It has dis- 
agreed with us all. But what were we to do? A minority. 
And armaments on all sides to invade our fatherland. 

Gee. — Invade? 

Beaun {with sarcasm lost on Gertrude). — Yes. The enemy against 
whom we are defending you, you know. 

Gee. {with anger). — Well, have we been defended? Why did you 
not defend us? First you took our men. You took all our 
food for your army. Then you let in the enemy ! Fine, good 
people shot down like swine — ( she buries her face in her 
hands) — 
Beaun. — Give us time. Give us time. Now we will shoot down the 
enemy's people like swine. That, my good girl, is defending 
you. 



26 Three War Sketches 

Ger. — Sh. Was not that the child? 

She goes and looks at the child and comes back. 
Ger. — He still sleeps. 

She sits down thoughtfulhf, with a backward glance at the 

door. Braun is moving restlessly as if his breath came hard. 

He makes the distressed gesture again. 
Braun. — We have done our best to protect you, — I know that. If 

we did not succeed, — why that is war. Tell me, what are the 

armaments for, but to protect women and children? 

Gertrude gives vent to an inarticulate exclamation of contempt. 
Braun. — You don't believe me. The thanklessness of women. 
Ger. — Then why couldn't you protect poor Madame, — and her boy 

here? In time of peace it was bad enough with the soldiers. 

But since the war, no woman is safe. O it is not only the 

enemy's soldiers ! You're all alike. And no woman dare com- 
plain. If she raises her voice, — what, you dare complain of 

your protectors ? That's treason ! 
Braun. — All the same. Armaments are to protect the women and 

children. 
Ger. {seeing his discomfort). — Let me lift you up. Lean against 

me, — so. 

She lifts him, and seats herself at his head, holding him in her 

arms. 
Braun. — Good heaven, how strong you are! — {he is quiet a m,o- 

ment) — Man is the natural protector of his own. Don't you 

know that? 
Ger. — I think you are exciting yourself. Try to be quiet. 
Braun {sarcastically). — Man is woman's natural protector. I 

repeat it. — {she lays his head on her shoulder) — To hold 

her in his strong arms. — {he laughs weakly) — You don't 

understand the situation, do you? 
Ger. — Bah. Neither do you. For all you're a learned gentleman. 
Braun {with a sigh). — We form leagues to protect animals. But 

where is the league to protect human beings ?* — A little wine. — 

You won't refuse me? 

She gives him wine. 



*I am indebted for this line to "J'Accuse," and have adopted it be- 
cause it cannot be too often repeated. 



The March of Truth 27 

Braun {with his distressed gesture). — I may die. But I shall never 
forget. If I could forget. It will follow me beyond death. — 
I have denied God. 

Ger. {much moved). — O poor man. O poor man. O for the priest! 

Braun. — No. No priest can do me good. I told you I had worked 

against wslt? 
Ger. — Yes. — {noticing his growing excitement). 

Braun. — The test came when war was declared. I stood to my 
principles with my friends. Then we saw what had happened. 
The rest of our brothers were against us. They were calling 
us — us — cowards ! They clamored that the Fatherland was 
in danger. The greater number against the smaller. A cause 
divided was lost. So we went crawling to the majority. We 
who had made war on war so many years ! And we denied God 
in that hour. All but one. He was brave enough to stand 
alone. We deserted him. At the snap of the whip from above, 
we obeyed like the curs we were. Curs. An army of curs to 
protect the fatherland. To be the stay of widows and orphans. 
To protect the chastity of our virgins. — {he laughs) — We 
were whipped into the trenches. We were told not to think. 
We only moved at the word of command. We, — who had lived 
for freedom! And the dreary days of nothing, in the mud of 
a stinking trench, — for us whose days had been crowded to the 
brim with work! — {he pauses: then speaks in a distinct 
voice) — There are no hells for me to fear now. I have known 
them all. — It is denied me to die for my belief. 

Ger. — Hush. You must not talk so. Be quiet and still. 
She hushes him like a child. 

Braun. — Protected.? No. I have destroyed. And now I cannot 
even protect myself. Dying like a poisoned rat in a hole. — But 
then — how many of them had a woman to watch over them.'' 
— {suddenly looking up at Gertrude) — Who are you.? 

Ger. {confused: not thinking of herself). — I.?! 

Braun. — Yes, you. What are you doing here.? 

Ger. — O I was cook here. 

Braun. — O. A Servant. Poor slave. 



28 Three War Sketches 

Ger. (indignant). — Don't talk so. 

Braun (wondering at her tone). — What did I say? 

Ger. — I liked my work. I can cook well. I liked my place. I was 
earning money. When Heini had served his time in the army, — 
(she shudders) — and had saved enough, — we were going to 
America. 

Braun. — Why.? 

Ger. — Because there are no military there to eat up poor people's 
money and lives. 

Braun. — Well, you'll find enough. And they're eating the money. 
— (gives a cackling laugh) — The lives will follow. 

Ger. — Do they do that there .f* 

Braun. — Yes. You see this war in Europe has made war popular 
over there. — And so Heini had to go to war.'' 

Ger. — O yes. — (she groans) — 

Braun. — And you don't know where he is.'' 

Ger. — No. — (she sighs) — 

Braun. — Well, thank God, I'm not married. Nor promised. Since 
the end is what it is. But no children, — that is a bad thing. 
No children, to learn that they must undo what their father 
has done. All the same, I must leave my will. That boy 
there — 
Gertrude starts up, shaking her head. 

Braun. — You can't tell. He may survive. He must carry on the 
work. You shall train him to it. It is my last chance. 

Ger. — I must go and look after him. 

She goes to the door and looks in. Braun sinks back, mur- 
muring. 

Braun. — The truth is marching on. 

He closes his eyes and sinks into a stupor. 

Ger. — How still he is. 

She disappears. A pause. 

Gertrude reappears. She looks ghastly. She utters a groan. 

Ger. (in a stifled voice). — The boy is dead. 

Braun (mechanically, without opening his eyes). — Dead. 



The March of Truth 29 

Ger. — I cannot believe it. I cannot believe it. He is dead. It is 
my fault. It is my fault. 
She disappears again. 

Ger. {reappearing). — It is true. It is true. It is my fault. I did 
not care for him enough. O what shall I do. What shall I do. 
She walks about distracted, looking dazed or half-mad, picking 
at her dress. Suddenly she gives a great sob and sinks beside 
the packing-case, her head on her arms. 
A great boom shakes the cellar. 
Braun rouses at the sound. 

Braun {delirious). — There it is again. And again. O — O — water. 
Water. — Will it never stop raining. Over our ankles. Over 
our ankles. Water. Over our knees. Cold. Cold. — {his 
voice dies away) — I smell them. I smell them. O — O — . 
Bury them. Bury them. O — water. Water. Up to our 
knees. — Bury them. Bury them. They can't — can't be buried. 
They can't — can't be buried. Ten days. Eleven days. Twelve 
days. Bury them. — {pause) — There. Again! They're not 
here. They're not here. They were — here. They were — here. 
Beside me; Yes. Men. Bury them. Bury them. Water. 
Water. I'm so cold. Up to our knees. 
A boom. 

Braun. — The water is rising. We've got to get out — get out of 
this. Can't. Can't. There's no way — no way. Lie — down. 
Lie — down. — {he sinks back) — Water. Water. 
Gertrude suddenly becomes aware of his last words. She stag- 
gers to her feet and goes to him. She raises him. 

Ger. — There's no water here. Only the wine. 

Braun {conscious). — What? You? Who are you? O. Yes. 

Give it to me. 

He drinks. 

Braun {suddenly clear). — Yes. Set that boy to work against war. 

Ger. {her face distorted). — The boy is dead. Don't you under- 
stand ? 

Braun {is silent a moment: then). — I die intestate. — {he covers his 
eyes with his hand). — No matter. No matter. The truth is — 
marching — on. 



30 Three War Sketches 

He suddenly raises himself and kneels facing Gertrude, swaying. 
She supports him. 

Braun. — It is you — you who are my heir. A woman. The world 
belongs to you now. You are strong enough to endure. And 
to protect. Bind it on your soul. My burden. No war. 
No war. 

He sinks hack. He becomes unconscious. His face relaxes in 
death. 

Gertrude watches him. Then she takes her apron from the 
floor where it has been lying, and covers his face. She 
kneels beside the settee. 

Ger. (between her deep sobs). — God. No war. No — war. 

Curtain. 



" Hatred 



CAST. 

Mes. Gbanville. 

Violet: Her daughter. 

Mes. Pike : Mrs. Gra/nville' s assistant at the Sewing Circle and in 

sundry other charities. 
Peofessoe Feoude : From a Belgian University, a refugee. 
Otto Siegee: From a German University, in the Imperial Aviation 

corps. 

Scene: England, during the war. The Granville's house at 
Pembury, a coast town, — "Bide a Wee," — the library. Low book- 
cases run about the room. At back, glass doors giving onto a low 
terrace or veranda. The room is low-studded and homelike. Door 
L. Fireplace R, very small. A fringed mantle-cover. Many 
photographs on the mantle. A passable clock with two matched vases 
on either side. Coal scuttle and fireirons. An armchair with wings, 
in front of fireplace, done in chintz. A sofa, facing down stage, 
L C, done in chintz. Chintz curtains. Too much chintz. It is even 
on the footstools. Too many knicknacks on the bookcases. Too 
many chairs. A table C. By the table, a large wicker basket from 
which some of the familiar grey Red Cross flannel is protruding. 
Skeins of grey wool on the table. 

Outside the windows, a view of a pleasant English garden, with 
a garden walk leading to an arched gate, covered with rambler roses. 
A garden bench, facing toward the gate, in view near the veranda. 

When the curtain rises, Mrs. Granville and Mrs. Pike are dis- 
covered out on the terrace, with their backs to the audience. {^Ter- 
race doors open.) They are both looking up into the sky intently. 

Mes. Pike. — There it goes ! 

Mes. Geanville. — It couldn't be, — no, of course not ! It's English. 

English. And anyway, at least it's not a Zep. 
Mes. p. — Gone now. 

They turn and come in, moving slowly down to the sofa. 



32 Three War Sketches 

Mrs. Granville: A well-nourished provincial Englishwoman with 
a fine Roman nose and a narrow forehead. 

Mrs. Pike: Also Roman-nosed and with a narrow forehead. She 
is unable to compete in point of figure, however, being thin and 
pinched-looking about the waist. 

Both ladies succeed in looking frumpy without departing from 
the rules of perfect simplicity. Mrs. Pike's bonnet, in particu- 
lar, is a triumph of simple hidosity. 

Mrs. p. {as they come). — I can't help thinking you ought to be 
nervous, — out on the heath, so far from town and so near the 
sea. You must be a perfect target from the sky. 

Mrs. G. {without hesitation). — Not at all. No lights after dark 
is the only precaution necessary. 

Mrs. p. — Well, I should hate to have those horrid Germans begin 
their atrocities with you and Violet ! 

Mrs. G. — If those horrid Germans can get as far as this, they are 
welcome to begin with me ! I simply trust our navy. That is 
all. 

Mrs. p. — I know, but our navy's not in the clouds. — {she has 
reached the basket and pulls out some small pa jama trousers) 
— As you see, my dear, the pattern was excessively skimpy, so 
that I did the best I could. After I found it out, I allowed 
for seams of course, but dear me ! — the first ones I cut out will 
scarcely fit the drummer boy. Look at that. — {she holds up 
the trousers) — Do please tell poor dear Violet before she does 
any more. 

Mrs. G. — Certainly. She's still rolling bandages. Hasn't cut out 
yet. 

Mrs. p. — What a mercy. I worried all the way about it. Well, I 
must be running along. I've got to look at the samples of 
wadding sent down from town to Crosby and Sneers. It'll take 
me fifteen minutes to walk there from here, and then after that 
I must stop in a moment to see poor dear Mrs. Thompkins, — 
her son's back from the front, lost both legs, — it's too sad. So 
I may be rather late at the Sewing Circle. And you're sure 
it won't be too much for you to get all the things down to the 
Rooms? 

Mrs. G. — Dear me, no. You know all these little things are only 
"doing our bit," aren't they.'* 



Hatred 33 

Mrs. p. — Good of you to take it that way. — {starts to go, then 
turns back) — But what do you hear from your poor dear 
husband .'* 

Mes. G. ( taking a letter out of her good English pocket and putting 
up her glasses). — Good news so far, my dear. He's had rather 
a sad time with these rains. But they're only keeping the men 
in the trenches four days at a time you know, and so they're 
making out. Here's his last. — {opening letter) — "All well, 
but very wet. Suffering slightly from chafed feet." (Shows 
he's very bad with them or he wouldn't have mentioned them 
at all.) "But no wounds, I'm better off than many another 
poor chap. Almost feel like a slacker," (Fancy!) "But when I 
think of you and the daughter, I'm grateful. Love to both of 
you and God bless you. We won't give up until we've annihil- 
ated the Huns. Then, with God's mercy, you and I may meet 
again safe at our own fireside. Love to our girl." Violet's 
always in his thoughts. Now every letter is like that. Cheerful 
and determined. 

Mrs. p. {who is so unfortunate as to have no near relative at the 
front: beginning a little enviously). — Fancy! What courage. 
How it supports one! — {warming up) — What a noble spirit! 
One hears it on all sides. We are living in a great time. Did 
you hear the Rector's last sermon? 

Mrs. G. — The one on the text, "Thou hast given me the necks of 
mine enemies, that I might destroy them that hate me",'' Splen- 
did, wasn' it.'' 

Mrs, p. — TFow-derful! Why I felt I could have shouldered a 
bayonet myself and enlisted at once ! 

Mrs, G. {laughing). — My dear, we can't spare you! You mustn't 
leave the Sewing Circle in the lurch. I have more than I can 
do already. 

Mrs. p. — But really, I'd like to kill some Germans, wouldn't you,'' 
Every time I read of those atrocities, I feel as if I could go 
any length! 

Mrs. G. — So do I, Violet thinks I'm bloodthirsty, but I think not. 
I feel and believe absolutely that God is fighting on our side 
to punish the wickedness on the other. This is not the time 
for milk-and-water sentiments I tell Violet, but she's dread- 
fully obstinate ! 



34 Three War Sketches 

Mes. p. — But dear Violet is working very hard, all the same, isn't 
she? 

Mes. G. — O yes. She works very well. But I feel she needs a 
talking-to. I believe I'll send the Rector to her, — she ought 
to believe what he says, — he's such a good man ! It isn't as if 
she wanted proofs of the wickedness of our enemies,- — with my 
Belgian Professor living right here in the house, who has been 
ruined in all wa3's, — the great work on which he's been engaged 
for twenty years, destroyed before his eyes ! Fancy ! 

Mes. p. {whose preperations for departure are again postponed: 
whispering). — O I wanted to ask you how he wears? 

Mrs. G. {very benign). — Professor Froude? My dear, he's charm- 
ing! Such a help too ! I want you to have a look at him, — 
when he's properly clothed. At present he's clad in some old 
things from the Relief Rooms, — the last they had, — sleeves and 
trousers several inches above high tide. I only let him walk 
out at night, but he's so dreadfully absent-minded, he thinks 
nothing of exposing himeslf to the passers-by in the daytime. 
But charming and patient and very grateful to us. You know, 
between ourselves, I dreaded taking a perfect stranger and a 
foreigner into my house, — but it has turned out extremely well. 

Mrs. p. {very doubtful). — But a Frenchman, — you never can tell. 
Isn't it — isn't it rather hard with such a pretty daughter in 
the house? 

Mrs. G. — O if Violet were the girl she was a year ago, I simply 
wouldn't have done it. I'd have put my foot down. But now — 

Mrs. p. — I remember her so well when she was going on the trip 
with your American friends, — just before the war. I thought 
you were dreadfully rash to send her along with them, with 
their delightful free ways. But she's ve-ry much changed, isn't 
she? — {a note of curiosity in her voice quite lost on Mrs. 
Granville) — 

Mes. G. — O it made a wonderful change in her. There's something 
ordained about these things. When the war came, Violet was 
ready to bear the burden with me, — when Henry left for the 
front. She's a woman now, and such a comfort and support 
to me, in spite of her inane sentiments as to loving our enemies. 
I don't know what I should do without her. And with the 
Professor she's very discreet, — O very ! She never stays long 



Hatred 35 

in the room, and so on. And he's as good as fifty years old. 

And besides, in these times we have to bravely take life as we 

find it, don't we.? 
Mrs. p. — O yes. Quite so. After all it's a great opportunity for 

these foreigners to see our English home life, isn't it? Speaks 

English, does he? 
Mrs. G. — O perfectly. These foreigners all do. 

Mrs, p. — Only one more bit of evidence that good English well pro- 
nounced, will take one anywhere. I always found that on the 
Continent. — {hurriedly) — Though of course I had the best 

' of instruction in French and Italian in school. Now I really 
must — love to dear Violet. I'm truly glad to have had this 
little chat. 

They are moving up to the glass-doors, when they are con- 
fronted with the peculiar apparition of the Professor. Mrs. 
Granville tries to make him a signal. But all he does, after 
stepping into the room, is to step gracefully aside, and hold the 
door open for Mrs. Pike. Mrs. Pike modestly veils her eyes. 
Mrs. Granville follows her guest. The Professor, with a hook 
in his hand, comes down. 

Professor Froude: is a tall, high- shouldered man, extremely thin, 
with a pointed heard rather grey and hair greyish and thin- 
ning. He has a very expressive sympathetic face, and so refined 
that his peculiar dress, such as described by Mrs. Granville, is 
not as conspicuous as she believes it ought to be. His hands, 
long delicate and mobile, are the more in evidence through the 
shortness of his sleeves. His accent when he speaks is noticeable 
but his English is excellent. 

Mrs. Granville returns as the Professor comes down R and re- 
places book in hook-case. 

Mrs. G. {laughing). — My dear Professor, I told you I would give 
you warning when the coast was clear. 

Prof. — My dear Madame Granville, to tell the truth, I entirely for- 
got. I feel sure Madame your friend is too kind to have no- 
ticed anything strange. Please do not be concerned on my 
behalf. After all I am clothed, and that is the principal thing. 
— {Mrs. G. looks shocked) — Is it not.? — {she does not 
answer so he continues) — I had finished my book and was 
coming for another. That is all. 



36 Three War Sketches 

Mrs. G. {busy at the basket). — I enjoy seeing you read, Professor. 
It is a treat to have a really literary person in the house. 

Prof. — Thanks. It is not often I have time to read so many novels 
at once ! I make the most of it, you see ! 

Mrs. G. (pausing in her occupation). — Then literature was not your 
subject at the University.? 

Prof, (smiling). — Literature — not novels, Madame. 

Mrs. G. (drily). — 0. But all our English novelists write so ex- 
tremely well. 

Prof, (continuing). — So I feel like a boy out of school. 

He turns again to the shelves. Mrs. G. goes L and steps outside 
the door. 

Mrs. G. (calling). — Violet! Violet! 

Voice (evidently upstairs). — Yes, Mother.'' 

Mrs. G. — Come down here a moment, and bring down the pajamas. 
I must tell you something about them. 

Voice. — Yes, mother. 

Mrs. G. comes in, pinning on an unbecoming hat at an unbe- 
coming angle. A moment later Violet enters with her arms jull 
of flannel. 

Violet: is a sweet young English girl of scarcely twenty. She 
has a troubled serious little look that is very attractive. She 
is simply dressed. Her hair is cut in a slight fringe in front, 
but is otherwise simply done. 

Mrs. G. — You brought them all, I hope. Sure you didn't drop any 
on the stairs.'* 
Violet nods. 

Mrs. G. — Mrs. Pike tells me the pattern is too small. You haven't 
cut any yet? — Yes, you have. I told you to make bandages 
before you did anything else ! 

Vi. — But the bandages are done ! 

Mrs. G. — Well, never mind. Now cut them out on this table, — 
yours upstairs is far too small, — you can't see what you're 
doing. — (she clears space on table C) — Allow as much as an 
inch and a half more on all the seams or the poor fellows can't 
get into them. Not that that would matter if they were 
Germans. It would only do good to give them a good pinch. 
Or suffocate them! 

Vi.— Mother ! 



Hatred 37 

Mrs. G. — Suffocate Them. I might say, hang them, if you 
prefer. — {to the Professor) — I say these things to keep her 
from being such a molly ! She doesn't like to have me say a 
word against the Germans, but it does seem to me that con- 
sidering what they have doiie, the least one can do is to talk! 
Violet ceases in her preparations for cutting out. 

Mrs. G. — Why, what's the matter with the child? Go on with your 
work. Does your head ache.'' 

Vi. — No ! Even if it did I should work ! 

Prof. — Bravo, Mademoiselle ! 

Mrs. G. — All the same your work is lackadaisical, — very! If you 
could only learn to hate properly, you'd get more vim into your 
work! 

Vi. (indignantly: with much vim). — But I won't! I never will! 
Even if Parliament goes and passes an act about it ! 

Prof. — Bra-vo, Mademoiselle ! 

Mrs. G. — Well, Professor, she may be very Christian, but she's not 
much of a patriot, is she now ! 

Prof, (quickly). — Au contraire — 

Mrs. G. {interrupting him). — I believe in good honest hating in 
these times, Professor. It gets so much done. I've seen it 
down at the rooms. Here's Mrs. Pike, — before the war, what 
did she ever do but gossip.^ Now, she wants to kill Germans, — 
and she's one of the best cutters I have ! Works night and 
day. — Violet, I want you to call for me at eleven. If you 
aren't there then, I shan't wait for you. 
She lifts the basket. The Professor rushes to her side. 

Prof. — O chere Madame, I cannot allow it — 

Mrs. G. — Ah no. Professor, not in those clothes — 

Prof. — Ah I forget. Well, as far as the gate — ? Yes.'' 

He lifts the basket, smilingly, and, they carry it between them 
to the door. They pause on the terrace. Violet, who has been 
working mechanically, here wipes her eyes, with a furtive glance 
over her shoulder to see if she is observed. 

Mrs. G. — Isn't that that airship again? 

Prof. — It is gone. 

Mrs. G. — What would a lone enemy airship be doing here in broad 
daylight? Throzving bombs? 

Prof. — Mapping out the country for bombs, more likely. A diffi- 
cult and dangerous operation. 



^8 Three War Sketches 

Mrs. G. — O well, I feel perfectly sure our navy would never let it 

get by. 
Prof. — The Zeppelins have, my dear Madame, and they are much 

larger. 
Mrs. G. — Ah but not in daylight. No it can't be. — But sup- 
posing it did contain a horrid German? 
Prof. — You would immediately run for the kitchen carving knife 

and be ready to cut his throat. — (gesture) — Hein.'* 
Mrs. G. — I should like to. I suppose if he were caught, they would 

shoot him at once? 
Prof. — Only if he offered resistance. 

Mrs. G. — Why surely they wouldn't leave him at large! 
Prof. — They would put him in a detention camp, or lock him in a 

cell. His confinement would depend largely on the amount of 

evidence he was foolish enough to wear. 
Mrs. G. — O I can't believe we could be so lenient. 

She starts on. 
Prof, {delaying the onward march). — Now what would you really 

have done if he tumbled over and over into your garden, while 

he was passing by? 
Mrs. G. — O come. Professor Froude, we must go. 
Prof, (squaring himself). — But really! If he dreadfully cut and 

scratched himself in that rosebush there. 
Mrs. G. — But he hasn't. So why discuss it. 
Prof. — But if he had? 

Mrs. G. (laughing). — Put my First Aid lessons in practise, I sup- 
pose. 
Prof, (triumphantly). — Bien! 

He gets under way. They disappear down the path and 

through the gate with the basket. 

Violet here lays her head down among the flannel and begins to 

cry. She does not hear the Professor until he is inside the 

room, nor does he see her position until then. He coughs 

slightly. 
Vi. (raising her head and pretending she is working). — O! 
Prof. — Did I startle you. Mademoiselle? 
Vi. — O no. I — (she begins to put her work together with nervous 

hands) — 
Prof. — Don't go, I beg of you. I am not staying. It would be a 

pity to drive you away from your own table. Mademoiselle. I 



Hatred 39 

am going into the garden again when I have found another 
novel, — as bad as the last one. That might be difficult, I 
admit, and may take some time. 
He pauses as he passes the table, and picks up a strip of flajmel. 

Prof. — What is this? The bandage? 

Vi. — Only flannel. 

Prof, (taking a strip and wrapping it tightly and rapidly about 
his arm). — That is enough to stop the circulation of any of 
our brave men — 

Vi. (smiling involuntarily) . — O but that is just what you must try 
not to do ! 

Prof. — Now see, crack ! the bombe, — er — an artery gives way. Vite, 
Mademoiselle Violet and her basket of bandages. Un tourni- 
quet. So. — (he illustrates, assuming the while the expression 
of faintness caused by supposed loss of blood) — Vite. Ah, the 
pencil. — (takes one from his pocket: puts it into the knot — 
He is saved! — (makes a face of relief) — Aha! You see I 
did stop the circulation and saved a life! — (shrug and char- 
acteristic motion of the hands: unwinds the bandage) — You 
think I am not serious. — (he becomes so with an apologetic 
smile: walks briskly to the book-case and takes down a book) — 
Please excuse my levity, Mademoiselle. Time hangs heavy on 
my hands, and to see you makes the time pass more quickly. — 
(Violet looks up a little startled^ — You see I have been used 
to wishing the days were forty-eight hours long to complete 
what I had to do. And now I should be glad sometimes if — 
there were no day at all. 

Vi. (with a quick expression of sympathy). — O Professor Froude, 
have you had no better news about your house in Belgium? 

Prof. — Worse, chere Mademoiselle. The house was completely de- 
stroyed. My manuscript with it. The work of twenty years. — 
(shrugs) — N 'importe. 

Vi. (pausing and putting down her work). — O I am sorry! 
Her voice expresses this amply. 

Prof. — Thank you, my dear Mademoiselle, Thank you. — (looking 
at her, gravely) — I only wish I had those twenty years back 
again. — (he comes slowly up to the table) — But on the other 
hand, if I had them, I would not now have bad lungs, I would 
have died in a trench, then I could not have written a manu- 
script — and lost it, — and I could not have known you. 



40 Three War Sketches 

Vi. (faintly). — O please, Professor Froude. 

Peof. — I know. I know. You see, Mademoiselle, I have reached 
the age of patience. I know now that I must sit by and for- 
bear. And I know also, there are compensations. You will 
not believe it perhaps, but it has been a great and overwhelm- 
ing experience to have met you. Yes, I mean it. 

Vi. — But — (she goes on with the work, terribly embarrassed) — 

Prof. — I have not known many women well, Mademoiselle. I have 
not lived much in the world. I have come to be glad of this 
evil chance that has given me great — great happiness, 

Vi. (in great distress). — Professor Froude, I never thought, — I 
never meant — 

Prof, (kindly: laying his hand on hers). — Dear Mademoiselle, this 
is not an offer of marriage. You have been avoiding me. I 
felt that. And I felt that my attitude should be explained. 
Penniless, without health, without youth, how could I — .'' Out- 
casts have one pride. They are proud of their humiliation. 
And for that reason I allow myself the privilege of telling you 
what I feel toward you. I think it can only do good. For no 
girl as young and beautiful as you — I might say no woman 
of whatever condition — should be without the knowledge of the 
feelings she inspires. And so, the only return I ask for what 
I give, is your confidence. I should like the honor of your 
friendship. 

Vi. (turning with a fidl heart). — Thank you. Professor Froude, 
thank you. 
Her eyes fill suddenly and she turns away. 

Prof. — My child, as I have watched your comings and goings in 
this house, I have believed that you needed a friend. And 
when you seemed to avoid me, — I was, — I was very sad. 
Mademoiselle. 

Vi. — O I quite misunderstood! Didn't 1? O — I beg your pardon! 

Prof. — Certainly, my child. Well, perhaps it is quite clear now. 
You will not be afraid in future. If there is one thing I can- 
not bear — and will not have, — Mademoiselle, — (affects stern- 
ness) — it is to have you afraid of me. — (he smiles) — Now, 
— (he sits beside her) — I am the Doctor. Now. Madem- 
oiselle, — (professional, with both forefingers in both vest 
pockets) — Let me know the symptoms. Yes.?* 

Vi. (half -laughing) . — But I can't tell you. I have no symptoms. 



Hatred 41 

Prof. — What then? Memories. That is it. Memories. 

Vi. (startled). — How did you know? 

Prof. — My observation is sympathetically keen, Mademoiselle. 

Vi. — Mother — do you think she suspects? 

Prof, (leaning forward). — Nothing, according to the same observa- 
tion which I repeat is acute. 

Vi. — O. Then how is it that you — have I said anything? 

Prof. — My dear child, not a word. But I regard you — in another 
way, — that is how I know. 

Vi. — It is a nightmare to me, lest father and mother should find out. 

Prof, (after a moment). — May I ask what? 

Vi. — Then you don't know. 

Prof. — I merely see that something is preying upon you, my dear 
child. But which one of the countless millions of troubles from 
Pandora's box has found a nesting place in your heart, I do 
not know. 

Vi. — O. Perhaps I ought not to tell you after all. 

Prof. — As you wish, but I merely took the opportunity to let you 
know I am a most willing audience. — (he rises) — 

Vi. — Professor Froude, I will tell you. And perhaps, perhaps you 
can advise me. — O I am forgetting my work. 
She works hy fits and starts as she talks. He follows the con- 
fession with the utmost sympathetic good breeding. Her feel- 
ings are reflected on his face in rapid delicate expressions. 
Also, he helps but never interrupts her recital with short ex- 
clamations. 

Vi. — You know before the war broke out a year ago, I went to the 
Continent with our American friends, the Cheevers. We went 
to Switzerland. It was May, in nineteen fourteen. — (she 
sighs) — How long ago that seems. 

Prof. — Hmm. 

Vi. — We stayed at a pension in a little place where tourists almost 
never go. And while we were there, a young German — 
The Professor slowly nods his head. 

Vi. — His name was Otto Sieger. He was on a walking-tour with 
some friends and had a bad blister on his foot. He came to 
our pension and stayed, to make himself quite fit. 

Prof. — Hm. 



42 Three War Sketches 

Vi. — You know Americans are very, very different in their ways — 
very odd. You know I think it rather nice. The Cheevers took 
Otto into our circle without once asking his references, — you 
know what I mean. 
The Professor nods. 

Vi. — And he was very glad to be adopted, you may be sure. And 
as the Cheever girls are both engaged and their fiances were 
there, why it fell to me to amuse Otto. Mrs. Cheever said it 
was my duty. Just fancy! — {she smiles) — So we were to- 
gether a great deal. O quite nicely. Mrs. Cheever was so very 
kind. And Otto's foot got well. And he didn't — go back 
to his friends. 

Prof. — Hm, hm, hm. 

Vi. — He stayed with us, and went on our trips with us. O — so 
jolly! We were all like one big family. Well, of course, I 
was with Otto so much, — we — got very well acquainted. 

Prof. — Of course. Hm, hm. 

Vi. — And — we told each other all about — each other. 

Prof. — Of course. 

Vi. — His father is a Scientist, very celebrated. In Saxony. Otto 
was studying for his degree. He was very serious. Mrs. 
Cheever said I changed that. I — hope — so. But — {suddenly 
there is a long pause: she continues in a faint voice) — He 
was in the aviation corps, even then. O dear. — {she puts 
her face in her hands.) — 
The Professor is sympathetically silent. 

Vi. — Well, — we — we — loved each other. That's all. 
Professor nods, sympathetically. 

Vi. — And — we were so happy. But you see he had nothing. And 
I had nothing. And so — we thought — since we had to part, 
we would neither of us write home. 

Prof. — You thought your parents would object, — and his.'* 

Vi. — O I don't think so, before the war. We have always had 
German friends. And Otto and his father, — they had trav- 
elled all over the world. It was not having any money that was 
our trouble. ' 

Professor nods. 

Vi. — Well, the day came when we had to say good-bye. And — Otto 
and I wrote to each other every day. Mrs. Cheever may have 
suspected. But she said nothing very nicely. She might have 



Hatred 43 

written to mother, you know, — but she didn't. She was so used 
to having young men about her daughters, you see. Americans 
don't seem to fuss about those things the way we do. And 
anyway, when we got to Paris, war was declared. And Otto 
wrote me his last letter, telling me he was with his corps, — we 
might never meet again. 

She puts her face in her hands and cries silently. 
The Professor sits quite still and watches her with deep com- 
passion. 

Vi. — Otto said he would never forget, and if he lived through the 
war, he was coming for me. And he said no matter what the 
feeling was between England and Germany, that he and I be- 
longed together. And he meant it. The Germans are that 
way. 
The Professor hows. 

Vi. — And anyway, Otto was that way. And so am I. — {she turns 
more and more to the Professor) — Otto is wonderful. I wish 
you could know him. He has such a wonderful mind. And 
such truth. And such loyalty. And so brave. And very 
tender of me. I don't see where people get the idea the 
Germans are rude and unkind to women. 

The Professor longs to smile at the artlessness of this, but 
refuses to do so. 

Vi. — He was never anything but lovely and considerate to me. Of 
course, at first he was shy, — a little gauche — {smiling a little) 
— I liked it. But Mrs. Cheever said he simply wasn't used to 
girls, and she took him in hand in such a nice way. And vert/ 
soon he did just as the others did. They all liked him. He was 
very amusing, very witty, when he got over his shyness. 
She puts her hand in her dress and takes out a small photo. 

Vi. — There is his picture. How do you like it.? 

Froy. {putting on his glasses). — Yes. Yes. I see. O yes. There's 
no doubt about it. A very fine young man. Very fine. — {he 
gives the picture back to her) — Very charming, very. I con- 
congratulate you. Mademoiselle. That is a man. Many 
women are not so fortunate. — But, my dear child, why let this 
prey upon you so? Your mother and father are not dragons. 
They ought to know. 

Vi. — It never occurred to me but what they ought, — that is, as soon 
as I could get home. Really. And then — in the hurry of those 



44 Three War Sketches 

first days — there seemed to be no chance. And then — when our 
men all went to the front, — the one thing they all vowed, — I 
don't know how many times I heard it, from all sorts of men, — 
was that the Huns must be blotted out. And the hatred was 
terrible. I don't understand it yet. 

Prof, (rising and walking about the room). — But you needn't un- 
derstand it. 

Vi. — Mother says such terrible things, sometimes. And in church 
they pray against our enemies. I can't do that. And the 
rector has preached on terrible texts. Only fancy — last Sun- 
day it was : "Thou hast given me the necks of mine enemies, 
that I might destroy them that hate me." And the Rector's 
such a kind man too. His fad is protecting animals. And 
father's one idea is to kill men now. He keeps track of those 
he knows he has killed. I can't — I can't understand. The 
other girls I know all talk the same way. 

Prof. — The other girls haven't had their eyes opened. I repeat, 
my dear Mademoiselle, you needn't understand this hatred. It 
is not there. No. We all like and admire each other as before. 
The obligation to hate is laid on us from above, and it is simply 
not obeyed. Why when I think of mt/ Germans, those that 
were my friends and are still, — I hate no Germans. I have 
reason enough to hate the men who have destroyed my town, 
my home, my work. But — {his voice becomes terrible) — I 
hate anarchy. That is all. And with my dying breath I shall 
fight it. Anarchy. 
He walks toward the wondoxv and stands looking out. 

Vi. (turning and looking after him). — O I think that is wonderful 
of you. You ! You of all people ought to hate. But you 
don't! That's what all these people here in this place can't 
understand. 

Prof, (seriously: almost sternly). — My dear child, when did an 
invader last set foot in England? When the Normans came. 
A thousand years ago. But with us, who have known little else 
but war, it is our fate. We accept it. Je plie et ne romps 
pas. C'est tout. 

Vi. — Then — you do not think I am wicked to have kept this from 
father and mother.'* 

Prof, (quickly). — No, no! I see that of course. But between you 
and me, your mother is not such a good hater as she thinks — 



Hatred 45 

He pauses, suddenly, as a man opens the gate and comes slowly 
down the path. He is apparently suffering and drops to the 
bench outside the window with his hack toward them. 
Violet jumps to her feet. 
Vi. — Did you see? 
Prof, {quickly). — Yes, I did. 
Vi.— Who is he? 
Prof. — I can't tell. He seems suffering. 

Both are at the window. The Professor starts out. 
Vi. — O do you think you ought? 

Prof. — He acts like a man wounded or fainting. Let me go to him. 
Stay here, Mademoiselle. Let me see who it is. 
He goes out. 
Vi. {following: agitated). — Let me come with you. 
Prof, {preventing her with his arm). — Perhaps you had best keep 
back. Mademoiselle. 

He closes the garden doors behind him, and is seen approaching 
the man. He speaks to him gently. The man raises his head. 
They talk in dumb show. 
Prof. — Who are you? 
Man.— What? 
Prof. — Who are you? 
Man. — Where am I? 

Prof. — In the garden of the house of Madame Granville. 
Man. — Granville. 

Prof. — Where did you come from? 
Man. — I am — an aviator. My machine broke down over there. 

He puts his face in his hands. 
Prof. — Ah. But not English. 

Man. — No. Not English. — I am ready to give myself up. 
Prof. — But not till you have refreshed yourself and rested. 

The Professor goes back into the house. 
Prof, {to Violet). — Mademoiselle, this is a German. — {she starts) 
— He has come to grief with his aeroplane. He seems abso- 
lutely exhausted. But I cannot see that he is injured. Now 
what do you think we ought to do? Shall we ask him in? 
Vi. {agitated). — O yes. Of course. At once. 

Prof. — Your mother would not object, I know. She told me as 
much this morning. You know it will be necessary to give him 
up to the authorities? 



46 Three War Sketches 

Vi. — O dear. But not yet. Not yet. 

Prof. — Then will you be kind enough to get him some food.? A 
little wine. I think he needs these more than anything else 
just now. 

Violet nods and goes off L. 

The Professor goes out to the German, raises him and brings 
him in and down to the sofa. 
The German, who is Otto Sieger, collapses a moment. 

Otto : is tall, well built, blonde. He is just now deathly pale and hag- 
gard. He is dressed in aviator's costume. He has lost his cap. 

Peof. {bending over him). — Mademoiselle Granville is bringing you 
some food. 

Ot. (rousing quickly). — Mademoiselle Granville? 

Peof. {distinctly). — Yes. Madame Granville's daughter. Madem- 
oiselle Violet. 

Ot. {struggling to his feet). — I must not stay here. 

Prof, {pushing him back). — She is informed. Sit still. 

Ot. — Informed ? 

Peof. — She knows you come from Germany. She has a great feel- 
ing of love for Germany. Her mother is away from home just 
now. 
Otto leans back and closes his eyes with a faint groan. 

Ot. {after a moment). — I am going to give myself up. 

Peof. — You are among friends, Monsieur. You may be uncon- 
cerned. No one witnessed j^our accident.? 

Ot. — I would have been glad if some one had. However, I got the 
thing close to the ground, and broke the fall with some trees. 
He shuts his eyes. 

Violet appears at doorway L with a tray. Professor F. goes 
to her at once and takes it. 

Peof. — Go to him. He is a — friend. 

Violet with a wild look of suspicion, goes toward Otto. The 
Professor comes down C with the tray which he puts on the 
table. Then he retires quickly to the garden and disappears. 
Violet goes slowly to Otto who is still sitting with his eyes shut. 

Vi. {seeing him and recognizing him: with utter pity). — Otto! 
Otto opens his eyes. 

Vi.— Otto ! 

Ot. {rousing). — You! How did you — how did I — find you! 
She sits beside him. His hand feels for hers. 



Hatred 47 

Vi. — O — Otto — (her words become inarticulate, as he lays her 

arms about his neck and draws her close to him. She sobs once. 

Otherwise they hold each other close and are still. 
Vi. (with sudden recollection: withdrawing) . — You are hurt? 

Otto shakes his head. 
Vi. — How did it happen? How did you get here? 
Ot. (after a little hesitation). — I can't — tell you. 
Vi.— But, Otto, why? 

Otto is silent, looking into her eyes. 
Vi. — Can't I know anything about you? 
Ot. (whispering). — No. 

Vi. — Or ask how you have lived all these months? 
Ot. (whispering). — No. 
Vi. — Can't I know any thing? 
Ot. — Only that it is with me as it was a year ago. You — for my 

life. 

Violet hides her head on his shoulder: then raises her face. 
Vi. (intensely) . — I have a right to know all that concerns you. 
Ot. — That would be betraying a trust, if I told you. 
Vi.— Told me. Otto? Me? 
Ot. — Yes. You. 

Vi. — And you think I cannot keep a secret? 
Ot. — I do not want you to know something you cannot tell your 

people. You must not be suspect. 
Vi. — O I cannot bear it! 
Ot. — Dearest. When I think how I looked down on this house from 

the sky — (he sobs) — 
Vi.— Otto ! 
Ot. (closing his eyes a moment). — It stands out so plainly on the 

heath. 

Violet looks at him, bewildered. 
Vi. (realizing the dangers involved). — Otto! 
Ot.— Thank God, thank God for that fall. 

They cling to each other, appalled. 
Ot. (at last). — Well, it is as it is. Thank God. I believe this was 

ordained. I feel you and I will live to the end of this. 
Vi. (quietly). — Otto, I won't ask. I know. I understand. — ^You are 

hungry and worn and tired. I shall keep you here. And care 

for you. 

Otto, his eyes never leaving her face, shakes his head. 



48 Three War Sketches 

Vi.— Why not? 

Ot. — I am a prisoner of war, — dearest. 

Vi. {agitated again). — No, Otto, no. I shall hide you. I shall help 

you escape. 

Otto shakes his head again. 
Vi. {her face suddenly changing again). — No. 

Otto, half -smiling, nods. 
Vi. {whispering) .But it is cruel. I can't. I can't give you up. 

Her arms go about his neck again. He holds her close. Shd 

cries bitterly. 
Ot. — Herzchen, weine nicht. Weine nicht, Herzchen. Da wir uns 

wiedergefunden haben. 
Vi.— Otto. Must 1? 

Otto nods. 
Vi. {her head bowed). — Well — I will do — as you say. 
Ot. — Aren't you glad to see me a little bit? Hein? 
Vi. — O Otto. I can't believe it. 
Ot. — Neither can I. 

His head falls back a little and he closes his eyes an instant. 
Vi. — Otto, you must eat! 

She goes and gets the tray, and holding it on her knees, sits 

beside him. 
Vj. — You must eat. — This is very nice. — I will feed you. 

Otto opens his eyes and, she feeds him. 
Vi. — Isn't that good? 
Ot. — Hm. — {he appreciates it) — More. 
Vi. — O not too fast. It's so long since you've had anything. You 

mustn't eat fast. 
Ot. — O please. 

Vi. — Now a little wine. Now only a swallow — 
Ot. {drinking). — O please — 
Vi. — That's enough. Now a little chicken. — Now a little wine. — 

Now a little chicken. — Now a little wine. 
Ot. — O this is starvation. 
Vi. — I shall put it all away if you're not good. 
Ot. {quickly taking another mouthful and draining the glass). — 

Do, I'll eat later. Now I want to see you. 

Violet puts the tray on th£ table. 
Ot. — How long, how long it is ! 

His arm goes about her as she sits beside him again. 



Hatred 49 

Vi. — Ages. Ages. I am so old. 

Ot. (amused). — You. — (sighs) — We're both old. 

Vi. (bitterly). — Why did we ever meet.'' 

Ot. — Are you sorry.? 

Vi. — Sorry! — (her face beams with tenderness) — 

Ot. — This war has ruined our happiness. But it cannot ruin our 

love. 
Vi. — Ah ! You feel that don't you ! 
Ot. — Did you doubt it.^* 

Vi. — No. But they make me afraid here with their talk of hatred. 
Ot. — There will never be that between you and me. 
Vi. — Never. 

Ot. — And when the war ends, we'll begin again ! 
Vi. — O will that ever be! 
Ot. — We must have great patience. 
Vi.— Yes. 
Ot. — And trust. 
Vi.— Yes. 

Ot. — It will end. And the world will be changed. 
Vi.— O by all this hatred ! 
Ot. — No. Leave the hatred, Violet. Leave it to the old people. 

We don't believe in hatred. 
Vi. — No. But what can we do, — we all alone against the others 

who believe in it.'* 
Ot. — We must work. 
Vi.— We wiU! 
Ot. — And be patient. 
Vi. — O yes. 
Ot. — Listen, Violet. There are many things my people have been 

very slow to learn, — too slow. The other peoples are slow too. 

And it is only when a lesson is very bitter that it teaches. The 

world of men moves very slowly. But — (he bites his lips: his 

face is contorted for a moment) — it is a good world. You 

and I are not going to believe it otherwise. 

He holds her close. 
Ot. (speaking into her ear). — When they tell you we are all 

butchers and murderers, breakers of treaties, Huns, — when they 

tell you we have used all ways base and vile to get our ends, — 

or else that we are fools driven to the slaughter by tyrants, — 

do you believe them.'' 



50 Three War Sketches 

Vi. {looking into his face). — No! — How can I? When I have known 

you! 
Ot. — Then you know, we, the real Germans, are not fiends? Then 

you know we are waiting until this madness spends itself? It 

will. There will be an end. But the generation of our parents 

will not see it. It will be young men who will lead our nation. 
Vi.— You ! 

Ot. — I hope so. I intend so. I mean to live. 
Vi. — And I shall wait — no matter how long! 

They kiss. 

As they separate, the Professor appears at the garden doors 

and knocks. 

Violet rises quickly and goes to the doors. 
Prof. — Men are coming along that road. Constabulary. 
Vi. (turning). — Otto. 
Ot. — I am ready. 

The Professor disappears. 
Ot. — Stay here. I will go and meet them. 

He kisses her again. 
Ot. — We shall meet again. We have our hope. Goodbye. 

He goes quietly out at the garden doors. 

Violet stands, leaning against the table, with her back to the 

audience, looking after him. 

Curtain. 



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